His voice startles me so badly that I jerk against the restraints. It’s the first thing he’s said since he entered the room.
“What?”
“In your sleep, you curl to protect your left side. When you’re conscious, you angle your body to shield the same area.” The scalpel traces my damaged ribs one more time, feather-light. “The injury is old. Childhood. Who hurt you?”
I stare at him. My brain is trying to process the question while simultaneously dealing with the arousal pulsing through my system.
“I don’t—it was—an accident. I fell.”
“You didn’t fall.” His eyes meet mine. “Injuries from falls present differently. This was repetitive trauma. Concentrated impact.”
My father’s belt. The heavy silver buckle with the Petrenko crest.
“It doesn’t matter who did it.” The words come out ragged. “It was a long time ago.”
He holds my gaze. Something shifts in his expression—not softening, but a micro-adjustment.
Then he steps back.
He reaches for the glass of water.
My heart stops. My whole body strains forward.
He brings it to my lips.
“One swallow,” he says. “Answer another question truthfully, and you get one more.”
The water touches my mouth and I almost sob. I take the swallow—one measured mouthful that spreads across my cracked tongue like heaven. The relief is so intense it’s almost painful.
“The shipping routes,” he says. “The ones your father uses for the Baltic transit. How many vessels?”
I should resist. I should refuse. But the water is still wet on my tongue and my body has already decided that pride is a luxury I can no longer afford.
“Seven,” I whisper. “Seven regular vessels. Three backups.”
He tilts the glass again. Another swallow.
“Names?”
I give him two names. He gives me two more swallows.
Then he steps back. Sets the glass on the tray—still a quarter full, still visible, still just out of reach.
“Tomorrow,” he says, “we continue.”
He doesn't turn toward the door immediately. He pauses, looking at me with an expression I can't read.
“The arousal response,” he says quietly. “It’s physiological. A common reaction to threat-based stimulation. It does not indicate desire.”
I stare at him. He’s giving me an explanation. A clinical out. Telling me that what happened wasn’t about want, wasn’t about him.
He’s being kind. In his own strange way.
“I know,” I manage. “I know what it was.”
He nods once. Then he turns toward the door.
“Wait. Just a little more. I’ll tell you anything?—”
